The Written Word Endures
by Tubular Fox
Summary: It's funny, sometimes, how well unrelated things always seem to come back to fitting you and I.  -o-  A compilation of ficlets written for my new project, Quest for Quotes, where I use donated favorite quotes as writing prompts for Arthur/Eames.
1. Isaac Asimov

Hello all! This is the first installation of my newest project, Quest for Quotes. I've decided that, when I have free time, I will use donated favorite quotes as writing prompts, to boost my creativity. This quote is from disquisitemind, over at LJ.

I will also be posting the Zombie fic, soon, as well, because I've decided I'm way too impatient to wait for a beta to finish reading all 140 pages of it. So, look forward to that, too, okay? :) And now, onward!

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* * *

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**1: It Makes A Slight Whizzing Sound As It Flies Directly Over Arthur's Head**

**-o-**

**It pays to be obvious, especially if you have a reputation for subtlety. -Isaac Asimov**

**-o-**

The flowers on Arthur's desk are his favorites—forget-me-nots and white daisies—laid out in a flattering, understated way beside his laptop. Arthur is sure that they weren't there three minutes ago, when he left to brief Dom on the latest stumbling block in the plan.

And yet, here they are.

He glances around, eyes slipping over Ariadne (buried in her mazes), Yusuf (far too focused on his chemicals to even be considered), and Eames (chair tilted slightly back, head cocked, reading glasses perched at the end of his nose while he skims through the brief on the mark's girlfriend, mouth moving along with the words in an entirely too distracting—)

Flushing, Arthur moves the flowers over a little and decides it's a wonderful time to _stop looking at Eames,_ managing to miss the few forget-me-nots tucked so delicately into the buttonhole of the Forger's suit.

**-o-**

"You look simply marvelous, Arthur," Eames says, handing him a glass of wine as they wait for Cobb to finish telling their finds to the client. "That's a nice tie."

Arthur half-smiles, accepting the drink graciously with a nod. "Thank you."

"For the compliment, or the wine?"

"The wine, of course. I look awful today." Arthur smoothes one hand over his tie and takes a sip of the Chardonnay that Ariadne had brought to celebrate the success. She had since disappeared; off somewhere with Yusuf, doing something that Arthur didn't really want to contemplate.

Arthur tries not to fidget when Eames's obviously-assessing eye drags up and down his body; over his shoes, the clean line of his slacks, his neat, white button-down…finally, they stop at the tie.

"You never look bad, Arthur," Eames says, smiling, but Arthur is shaking his head and pulling at the four-in-hand, dissatisfied.

"Thursday's gunfight ruined my Charvet," he responds, sounding just put-out enough to make Eames smile.

Next week, there is a new navy and pink floral Charvet tie in Arthur's briefcase, innocently sitting on top of the papers Arthur had just packed last night. He's not sure how it got there.

**-o-**

The steaming cup is placed into his hands, and he blinks blearily at it, trying to identify it. The beverage smells familiar, and looks familiar, but Arthur has been awake for forty-one hours, and he's pretty sure that by now, the bust of David would look like the little yappy dog his mother used to have.

He makes a kind of unintelligible noise that was supposed to be something like, "What?" but comes out sounding a bit more like, "Nnngg."

"Oh, darling," he hears someone sigh, and the only people who call him darling are Eames and his grandmother. Memé died years ago, so the identity of Arthur's mysterious drink supplier is pretty definite.

"…mes?" he mutters, trying to focus his eyes on the man in front of him. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and then looks up again. "What're you doing here?"

"Someone's got to keep an eye on you, Arthur. Look at what you get up to when I'm not around."

Arthur glances at his laptop screen and squints through his headache to read the words he'd typed:

_Je présente Dom à la vache, pourtant il n'aime pas le squash elle a apporté._

He blinks, and then frowns, and then reads it again.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Arthur," Eames begins, "but I think that's about Cobb meeting a cow and not liking squash. What, exactly does that have to do with your job?"

"Everything," Arthur answers assuredly, because surely, he wouldn't have written it if it was unrelated. "Obviously the cow is…"

"If you say the mark, I'm warning you, I _will_ start laughing uncontrollably," Eames says, already curling one hand under Arthur's elbow to pull him up from the chair. "Now, why don't you just go home and take a little kip, and come back in when you feel better?"

"I don't want to drive," Arthur mutters, ever practical, "and I'm not going to take a taxi."

"Then let someone drive you."

"Who?" Arthur questions, shrugging on his jacket after putting the wrong arm in the wrong sleeve far too many times. He practically sways on his feet, and then distractedly takes a sip of the now-cool drink Eames had given him before. It's tea.

"Someone who cares about you, obviously, and doesn't want you to wrap your car around a tree," Eames says, rolling his eyes and placing a steadying hand on Arthur's lower back. "Really, sometimes you're so dull."

Arthur glares at him, but the effect is ruined by the fact that his eyes won't seem to stop closing.

"Ariadne's gone home," the point man huffs, "and I don't want to bother Dom."

Eames's smile tinges sad, and he gently rubs the small of Arthur's back. "Well, I guess you're just going to have to settle for me, hmm?"

**-o-**

Finally, finally he is sick of it. He has tried everything, from flowers to candy to compliments, but nothing has gotten through. _Nothing_. Surely he hasn't been _that_ far off the mark with all of the things he's done?

Eames watches Arthur from across the room, watches him gesticulate wildly at Cobb about just how _bad_ an idea this or that is, or lean in to look at Ariadne's latest architectural marvel, or question Yusuf about the particular properties or some compound or other. And he wonders how someone so adept at seeing what's going on in other people's lives can't see what's right in front of his nose.

So, to hell with subtlety.

"Arthur," he says, standing up rather suddenly. Arthur looks over from where he is shuffling his papers into a semi-manageable pile, shoes tapping on the concrete as he shifts and straightens.

"Yes, Eames, what—" His question trails off into a kind of surprised "Mmf?" as Eames grabs his shoulders and smashes their mouths together. For an instant, all Arthur does is stand there, shocked, hands twitching kind of nervously at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them.

Because…he really doesn't.

Finally, they settle on Eames's waist, and his mouth begins to move against the Forger's. Things get better: he relaxes, he tips his head to give Eames a better angle, he makes an almost imperceptible encouraging sound in the back of his throat…and when they separate, Cobb is staring, open-mouthed, and Ariadne and Yusuf are clapping.

"Well?" Eames asks when Ariadne has stopped cheering and Yusuf's wolf whistles have died down.

"Well?" Arthur parrots. "Well, a little _warning_ might have been nice. You can't just go around randomly kissing people without declaring your intentions at least a week beforehand."

Eames blinks, completely thrown.

"Oh, _darling_," he groans in frustration, and then pulls him in for another kiss by his navy and pink Charvet tie.

* * *

There you have it! If you'd like to help with the Quest for Quotes, I welcome you to do so. Please send them to me in PMs or replies, or look me up on LJ as kittie_gurl57 and drop me a line over there. :)

Thanks so much for reading, and please review!


	2. WH Auden

Here's the next installment! I'm warning, though, that this one's kind of depressing. But fear not, because the ones after this are more light-hearted. :)

Quote given to me by the lovely riotguns over at LJ.

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In the Sun, Your Eyes Will Shine, To Show the World that You Aren't Mine**

**-o-**

**"The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;  
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun."  
- W.H. Auden, **_**Funeral Blues**_

**-o-**

It is hard for Arthur to see the good side of this situation. There isn't one, and he knows this, but there will always be that voice whispering in the farthest corner of his mind; whispering, "You take everything much too seriously, including yourself. Try to see the _positive,_ darling."

And he's trying. He's _trying, _Goddammit_,_ but there is no optimist in the world that could sew a silver lining into this storm.

And suddenly, suddenly it is too bright as he kneels here in the middle of the night, knees soaking up the tears of the people who have long since left, the last remnants of the flood he's still drowning in even though the horribly clichéd rain has long since ceased to fall.

He digs his fingers deeper into the dirt, like he can fix everything if he could just get down a little farther—but nothing changes even as the grime burrows beneath the clean cut of his fingernails. He knows that he won't get it out for days.

And the stars are still too bright.

He can see every detail clearly. The small mottled specks of the stone, the name, the inscription, the—_God—_the freshly dug earth that's ruining his expensive suit. And he wishes it would stop. He wishes that it was dark—dark all the time, like it was before that infuriating day when they met; the day that was the morning sun into his life of numbers and figures and relationships that weren't his own.

The sun that shined all the time from that fucking _smile_ and those fucking _eyes_. So bright, and he could never stand it because when it was turned on him, it seemed to burn away whatever mask he had up and leave only his insecurities behind.

And shouldn't it be dark, now? Now that the sun is gone?

He'd been asked, once (eternities, but really only a fucking _week_ ago), what it was he wanted most. Maybe it had been for his birthday, or for Chanukah—it doesn't really matter, anyway. He'd laughed and said nothing, instead changing the topic because _he didn't know what he wanted._

Well, now he does.

It's impossible. He knows _that_, too. He knows that nothing could ever bring the dead back—nothing could pull out the bullets and sew up the flesh and replenish the blood. Nothing could make the stopped heart start beating, or the air flow back into the lungs.

No, it's not going to happen.

So, instead, Arthur sits there in the dirt and wishes for the stars to turn off, for the dawn never to grace a new day. He wishes no light would shine, finding him alone again in the dark of his world. He wants the moon to fall, and possibly crush him—wouldn't that be grand? But that, too, is impossible.

He also wishes he were cowardly enough to leave the world behind.

But he's not.

He sits there, quietly, ruining his suit and his heart and his eyes with the dirt, and the pain, and the _fucking tombstone_ that burns 'James William Eames, 1998-2034' permanently into his brain.

But most of all, he wishes he had answered Eames, when he asked, "_What do you want most, Arthur?"_ with a laugh, and Arthur had laughed, too, and Arthur had said nothing. He wishes now that he had slid, "_Would you kiss me?"_ into the place of, "_That's not important. How are the kids, Dom?"_

Wishes he had said it, and made Eames smile and stay with him a little longer, or run and leave a little sooner; whatever it took to avoid the drive-by—the _fucking drive-by_—that caught one of the world's best in the worst time and place.

But changing the past is also quite out of the question, so Arthur simply stands and brushes the dirt off of his pants, straightens the pleats, and tosses down the bouquet of pinkladies that have been patiently waiting by his side.

"What do I want for my birthday?" he asks, quietly, just as the light starts to stream over the tops of the trees. "What would I wish for, when I blow out my candles?"

The die in his pocket is pulling him off-balance, the weight of the reality he's confirmed thirty-six times since last Wednesday tipping the world dizzyingly through the water that stings behind his eyes.

"In all honesty, Eames, I only wish you'd known that I love you."

And then, with the sky glowing above him, turning all of the puddles to blood, Arthur leaves the sun behind.

He needs to pin down those numbers by noon.

* * *

See? Sad. But so far, this is the saddest one I've written for this project, and I have at least two more happy ones on the way. So, review, please?


	3. flawedkarma

Third installment! This one's lighthearted, so don't worry. Hope you enjoy! **Oh, see end notes for an important announcement! **

Quote nicely donated by (surprise) flawed_karma over at LJ!

* * *

**[Invalid Command]**

**-oxo-**

"**There is no internet acronym for how funny that is." - flawed_karma**

**-o-**

**From: **Ariadne _[architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 9:35 am  
**Subject:** [No Subject]

Arthur, I know we're supposed to be working, but _honest to God_, you are driving me nuts. Just cut it out with your stupid pride and go _do_ something about it. Seriously. Before _I_ do.

**-o-**

**From: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Ariadne _[architecturaldivity(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 10:24 am  
**Subject:** Re:

While your mental health is always a concern of mine, I'm afraid I can't do _anything_, because I have no idea what you're talking about.

How's the planning for the second level coming? What have you decided on?

**-o-**

**From: **Ariadne _[architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 11:40 am  
**Subject:** Re:

Well, I figured that I'd set up something like a garden party, with a hedge maze that has a prize at the center. That way, we can find out what exactly it is that the mark wants most, and Cobb can extract it before the mark gets there. Do you think that would work?

But stop changing the subject! You know _perfectly well _what I'm talking about. Don't play dumb, it doesn't suit you.

**-o-**

**From: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Ariadne _[architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 11:45 am  
**Subject:** Re:

That sounds like it should work perfectly, Ariadne. How close are you to finishing the base layout?

And I'm _not_ playing dumb, because to do so would be time consuming. I honestly have no idea what you're on about.

**-o-**

**From: **Ariadne _[architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 11:47 am  
**Subject:** YOUR MOONY EYES

Done.

Seriously? _Seriously_, Arthur? I've been watching you stare at Eames like a love-struck teenager for the past _three days_. You're just lucky that he's been too busy with his own work to notice. Be glad that your desk is hidden when his laptop's open.

**-o-**

**From: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**To:**Ariadne _[architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 11:51 am  
**Subject:** Re: YOUR MOONY EYES

Bring it to Cobb for him to look over with you, and then come see me.

…I'm not a love-struck teenager. You're simply misobserving.

**-o-**

**From: **Ariadne _[architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 11:53 am  
**Subject:** Re: YOUR MOONY EYES

Oh Arthur, come on. Level with me. You two are together, aren't you? Or something?

**-o-**

**From: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Ariadne _[architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 11:56 am  
**Subject:** I don't make moony eyes

No. Eames and I are _not in a relationship_. And why on earth would you think I'd want to be?

**-o-**

**From: **Ariadne _[architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 12:00 pm  
**Subject:** You do, you totally do

See earlier statement that you've been staring at him for three days. Really, I'm surprised he _hasn't_ noticed. You think he would have.

Why don't you go _talk _to him, if you like him that much? I mean, Valentine's Day is coming up soon…

**-o-**

**From: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Ariadne_ [architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 12:02 pm  
**Subject:** Re: You do, you totally do

This is really none of your business, Ariadne.

**-o-**

**From: **Ariadne_ [architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 12:04 pm  
**Subject:** Live a little

Okay, so it really isn't, but the sexual tension between the two of you is making me crazy. Just go and talk to him, invite him out to dinner, take him to bed, and then we can all get back to our lives.

And who knows? Maybe you two will hit it off. :)

**-o-**

**From: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Ariadne_ [architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 12:07 pm  
**Subject:** Re: Live a little

Are you _really_ telling me to get _laid?_

And how the hell do you know Eames would even say yes?

**-o-**

**From: **Ariadne _[architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Arthur _[paradoxical(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 12:11 pm  
**Subject:** Are you really so blind?

Trust me on this, darling. ;)

**-oxo-**

Arthur's eyes shoot up from the screen of his computer to scan the warehouse warily. They soon fix on Eames, even though the Forger's face is still hidden behind his own laptop, like it has been…_all day_.

"Ariadne," Arthur says, slowly closing his computer, and she looks up from her virtual design program to see what he needs.

"Yes, Arthur?"

"Have you finished the design for the second level yet?" He sees Eames shift a little out of the corner of his eye.

"No, not yet. But I was thinking that maybe we could have a race, with a prize at the end, so the mark would make the prize what he wanted and Cobb could extract it." She leans around her model supplies to seek his approval, and he nodded.

"When you're done, show it to Cobb, and then bring it to me to discuss." He stands, picking up his laptop and putting it in its case.

"Okay. But, uh, where will you be?" She watches him walk over to Eames's desk and lean down to say something quietly to the Forger. Eames's eyes widen, and then he grins and nods, his feet slipping off his desk to fall onto the floor as he turns his swivel chair. Then he rises, humming, to follow Arthur out the door.

She waits, confused, for a few seconds before sneaking quietly over to the door and pulling it open a sliver to peek outside.

"…Oh my God, they're sucking face."

She closes it quietly.

When she has returned to her computer, she glances around to make sure she's really alone, and then silently, triumphantly pumps her fist into the air.

**-oxo-**

**From: **Ariadne _[architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**To: **Cobb _[toogoddamntired(at)yahoo]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 12:15 pm  
**Subject:** Re: Our bet

ROFLMAO, Cobb, you owe me fifty bucks. They're outside the warehouse _right now_, making out. I told you I could do it before Valentine's Day. :)

But, should I be worried that Arthur doesn't think it's a long shot for Eames to have hacked my email?

**-o-**

**From: **Cobb _[toogoddamntired(at)yahoo]_  
**To: **Ariadne_ [architecturaldivinity(at)gmail]_  
**Sent: **Sun, Feb 2, 2031 12:16 pm  
**Subject:** Re: Our bet

Great. Maybe now we can finally get something _done_, instead of them just poking at each other like two kids with a crush. Good job, Ariadne.

_Now tell them to get back to work_.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed! Now, onto business: I WILL BEGIN POSTING MY ZOMBIE FIC SOMETIME NEXT , since I'm going to be following a "one chapter/week" format, I want to know if you guys want me to keep posting these little ficlets in between. Yes/no? Thanks! :)


	4. Remus Lupin

Hello all! Because I'm a comment whore, I've decided to keep posting chapters for this in between the updates of Zombies. This quote was given to me by the wonderful callmebombshell, over at LJ.

This one was filled according to the rules of a challenge that my sister set me after she got sick of beta'ing one of my fics: WRITE SOMETHING WITHOUT USING THE WORD 'AND.' This I have accomplished. I hope you enjoy!

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No Ifs, Ands, Or Buts About It

**-o-**

**"I like to remember everything. As it was. Because moments by themselves aren't enough; they're just - they're like photographs. They move a little, they wave, but they aren't everything. You can look back on a moment and say 'In that moment I was happy' or, more often than not, 'In that moment I was uncomfortable' or 'In that moment I was sad' or 'In that moment we were all berks' but you can look back on everything and you think, 'That was good.' Because when all the moments come together, when all the songs meet up with one another, you get something whole and complete and wonderful, people you loved and people you hated and a fondness for them you may not be able to recapture but everything you remember about them being somehow more than they really were, because that's what remembering everything does."  
-Remus Lupin; _The Shoebox_**

**-o-**

There are moments when Eames likes to stop, likes to remember.

He thinks that maybe, if he looks back for long enough, looks hard enough, he will see the moment when things began to change. His life went—quite suddenly, it seems—from being one thing to being something completely different, without him even noticing.

Naturally, it's all Arthur's fault.

When Eames considers all of the things in the past that had a lasting effect on his life from a certain age onward, they all have something to do with Arthur. They are not all jobs, necessarily. Sometimes, they are moments spent observing or teasing; sometimes they are holding hands, or lying in bed together, not needing to say a word.

Eames sighs, looking over at his lover where he stands cooking. He wonders: What _changed?_

There are, of course, an equal number of instances that Eames can recall that were _not_ so life altering. However, he's quite sure that those are the times when Arthur nearly got him killed, or shot, or maimed in a way that Eames was not, prior to their engagement.

Arthur was always dangerous—unpredictable, too, which was what had snared Eames in the first place—but seeing him now, when he's open, smiling, _human_, is what really makes Eames's knees go weak.

Then Eames realizes he has stopped thinking about his life's unexpected turns to think about Arthur instead.

He laughs.

"Look what you do to me, love," he says, standing from the table to wrap his arms around Arthur's waist. "Every time I look at you, you turn me not only into a marshmallow, but one that can't even focus on something long enough to reflect on it."

Arthur makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat as he elbows Eames aside to grab the salt shaker off the counter. "I believe that you had that problem long before we met." He smiles, though, taking a second to kiss Eames's cheek before turning back to the dish he's preparing. "What's bothering you?"

Eames sighs. "Life. Everything."

He steps back, suddenly, to look at his life as a whole like he has never done. It used to frustrate him, looking at all the small sections, because he still couldn't find it; that one, small thing that blew everything up from how it used to be.

He sees it now.

It was not one instant that changed him, not a minute or an hour or a day. Instead, it is a life spent with a beautiful, deadly man, who—in a suit, in an apron, in nothing at all—is everything Eames wants.

He realizes that Arthur is staring at him.

"Sorry, what was that?" Eames asks, because Arthur's got a kind of weird expression on his face; half-sad, half-confused. Eames smiles at him, trying to soothe it away because he hates seeing that look on Arthur's face.

"Nothing," comes the swift reply. Arthur is only halted from turning around by Eames's hand on his wrist.

"Come on. Tell me."

"It's stupid," Arthur insists, a phrase that just months ago would have had Eames needling him mockingly until he snapped to be left alone. Now Eames just wraps his arms around Arthur again, pulling him close to his chest.

"What, love?"

Arthur sighs. "You said that life was bothering you. Is—fuck, is there something wrong?"

The way he averts his eyes slightly tells Eames all he needs to know. He lays his hand gently on Arthur's face. When he leans into rest his forehead on his lover's, Arthur doesn't pull away.

"There's nothing wrong," Eames says, a bit surprised himself to find he means it. He kisses Arthur softly, then lets the embarrassed man go back to stirring the vegetables around the pan. When he steps back, this time, he looks forward instead, at all of the moments he will spend here, in love.

Arthur clears his throat.

Studiously, he is not looking at Eames as curious eyes fall on his back.

"Eames," he begins, then stops. Arthur's shoulders are tense when Eames lays his hands on them, so he digs his thumbs into the tense muscles until Arthur gasps, until he relaxes.

When Arthur speaks again, he is more confident, though the tone of his voice implies that he thinks very little of the question he asks. Maybe he thinks Eames will find it trivial, or it will make things awkward. Eames pauses when he hears it.

"Are you happy?"

Eames takes two plates out of the cupboard. As he sets them out on the table beside the silverware, he thinks about it. Happy. Is he happy?

He meets Arthur's eyes from where they peer curiously—anxiously—at him, half-hidden behind fake indifference. Then he smiles.

"Yes, Arthur. I am _quite_ happy."

* * *

So yeah, nothing Earth-shattering or really all that important, but I had fun writing it. But let me tell you, it was hard! I have such an annoying habit of starting all of my sentences with 'and', driving my sister _crazy_ when she betas for me. So this was a fun challenge, AND I think it came out cute. :)

Thanks for reading!


	5. Paper Towns

Next update! Quote given to me by my wonderful sister, VergOfTowels!

* * *

**Until The End Begins, Are You Still My Baby?**

**-o-**

"**... Each of us is a watertight vessel….Once the vessel cracks open, the end is inevitable. But there is all this time between when the cracks start to open up and when we finally fall apart. And it's only in that time that we can see each other….[O]nce the vessel cracks, the light can get in and… the light can get out." - **_**Paper Towns**_

**-o-**

Eames always knew this day would come. He knew, he likes to think now, from the very first moment he ever laid eyes on one Arthur Elliot DeLacey. That first handshake had started something; something Eames had never been able to control.

He wasn't sure what he was going to do, now.

Before Arthur had walked into his life, Eames had been fine. Content. More importantly, he hadn't been dependant on any_thing_ or any_one_. He had lived his life from job to job, encounter to encounter, never caring about anyone but himself.

He would betray anyone, if the price was right.

The only things people knew about him were the things he wanted them to know—that he was male, and that their lives didn't matter to him beyond the payoff.

He wishes, now, that that was still the case.

But no matter how many times he's tried to tell himself it hasn't happened, no matter how many times he's tried to dismiss it or ignore it, the truth still remains the same: His life began to end the day he heard, "Arthur. Pleasure."

**-o-**

"Eames, it's always a pleasure to see you." Arthur's hand is warm in his; dry and soft, and Eames tries not to hold on to it for longer than is necessary.

"And you, Arthur. How have you been since we last talked?"

Arthur snorts. "Fine. Though I hear Roberts and Nicholai aren't doing so well in prison. But of course, you wouldn't know anything about that." Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, teasingly, and Eames tries very hard not to smile back at him.

He fails.

"Oh, Arthur, I'm wounded that you would even _think_ that I would have anything to—" Eames stops faking innocence when Arthur folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the table, unimpressed. Instead, Eames shrugs. "Everyone on that job was a liability."

"If that's the case, then why aren't I behind bars with them? Or in whatever country has my most dire offense on record?"

Eames shifts, only slightly, and then grins charmingly up at the point man. "What's the matter, Arthur? Jealous? Don't worry, I'm sure you'll get your fair share of time in the loving arms of the law."

It is obvious from Arthur's face that he is both unconvinced and unamused. Eames laughs, and watches Arthur's eyes narrow. Arthur doesn't like not knowing what motivates people, so Eames decides to satisfy him, finally.

"You're much more useful than they are," the forger says, and it is not exactly a lie because the statement itself is true. However, that is not why Arthur is standing before him, a free man. It is also not why, should Arthur find himself actually convicted for one of his many, _many _crimes, or captured—or even lost in _limbo_ for God's sake—Eames will come for him.

It is because Eames is dying.

**-o-**

When the bullets start flying, Eames runs. This has always been the case. _Always._ Sometimes, the men with guns are supposedly on his side, because of the information he's given them. But that means nothing, because once they have it, he is no longer useful.

"Fuck, we've been sold out," he hears Miller say as the extractor pulls his gun out of his holster. His beady eyes shift suspiciously over to Eames, but Eames is not looking at him.

There is a way out of this, but the window of opportunity won't stay open for very much longer. Only long enough for one person to get out. He knows he should take it, and he is just preparing to when—

"Arthur, cover that window!"

"Shite," Eames mutters as he glances over to watch Arthur do just what Miller says. Besides Arthur and himself, there are only two other people in the warehouse. If Eames succeeds in getting out through the hole in their adversaries' defenses—

Arthur will not survive the attack if it is just the three of them.

"Fuck."

The hole closes.

"So, darling, what's the plan?" he asks, stepping up beside Arthur and checking the magazine of his gun. Arthur looks over at him, as if surprised to see him there, and then turns his eyes back to the approaching gunmen, to figure out what to do.

And Eames watches him, and feels another bit of himself crack open.

**-o-**

"Arthur! _Arthur!"_

Eames isn't even sure that the other man can hear him over the roar of the bullets, over the screams of the wounded, the hopeless. Once or twice, he loses sight of him amongst the chaos as people run or limp or crawl by, trying to get out of this slaughterhouse.

_Why the hell did Arthur take this job?_

Eames finds him, finally, crouched down behind an overturned table, one hand pressed against his side. The forger can already see the red stain spreading, ruining the light cloth of Arthur's tan suit jacket.

Eyes, unfocused, fix on him. "Eames?"

"Shh, darling, don't worry. I'll get you out of here." He bends to press his folded jacket against the bullet wound, trying to slow the bleeding. "You'll be fine."

"Why…why are you…here?" Arthur asks, and it worries Eames just how labored his breathing is. "Not your…job. You were in—" The cough that cuts him off is wet, and hacking, and Eames knows it is time to leave _now._

"Mombasa, I know. But since you hate it there and won't come to visit me, I figured I might as well come see you here in Italy."

And Arthur lets out one breath of laughter, and then goes limp against Eames's side.

"Oh, Arthur, Arthur," Eames whispers, and waits for the sirens.

He is almost completely broken.

**-o-**

Arthur has always been beautiful, Eames decides, as he watches the other man stir gently against the twisted white bed sheets. He surely must have skipped directly over the gangly, awkward phase that colored Eames's own teen years, for the forger simply can't imagine Arthur as anything but what he is now—sleek, efficient, dangerous.

Beautiful.

He reaches over to brush his fingers lightly over the flushed curve of Arthur's cheek, and smiles as the brown eyes flutter open drowsily.

"…Eames?" Arthur finally asks, shifting and stretching, his back arching gracefully as he yawns. Eames drags his knuckles down Arthur's spine, appreciating the faint shiver that runs through the Arthur's body at the sensation.

But it's the smile—that _smile_—that finally gets him. It's the way that the corners of Arthur's mouth twitch lazily upward, the way one of his cheeks dimples ever so slightly as Eames leans over to kiss him.

And he always knew this day would come.

"James," he says, softly, when he pulls away.

"Hmm? What?" Arthur asks, tilting his head a bit in confusion. "Eames, what are you—"

"James," Eames corrects again. "I'm—"

"You're leaving." Arthur is looking at him now, no longer pliable and half asleep. "You're—"

"Retiring. Arthur, this job takes a certain kind of person to do it, as I'm sure you've noticed. And because of—" (_you; your eyes, your smile, your laugh, the line of your back, the curve of your nose or your hands around a gun_) "—outstanding circumstances, I am no longer that man."

_I've grown soft,_ he wants to say. _Ever since that day, when you poisoned me with your confidence and your capability. Ever since then,_ Eames _has been dying, and_ James_ has been falling in love with you._

But he doesn't. He just waits for Arthur to say something. Anything.

"I have work lined up," he says, when Arthur fails to respond. "Still illegal, of course. Anything else would be boring. Forgeries, mostly. Bonds and paintings and the like. Though there is always a certain amount of planning that needs to be done for _any_ crime…"

And there it is. Now that he's cast it out into the air before them, it seems so ridiculous, so unlikely that Arthur would ever accept something, _anything_ that James could offer him. What could be better than what he already has?

For the longest time, there is only silence.

"All right," Arthur finally says, rolling onto his side to look at James, and he smiles to see the other man blink, like he _actually thought Arthur wouldn't say yes_. He pillows his head on his arm and laces the fingers of his left hand with those of his lover's right.

"Forging bonds and paintings and the like," Arthur repeats, and his nose scrunches with a breath of laughter that seems to flood James's soul with a glow of sentimental warmth. And Arthur's eyes are bright as he leans over to press a soft kiss to the corner of James's mouth.

His dimple flashes.

"When do we start?"

* * *

Thanks for reading! I hope you liked. :)

Please let me know what you think!


	6. My Chemical Romance

Hey all! Here's the next installment. It's a bit depressing, and my knowledge of war is very limited. It's mostly based on the impressions I got from "The Things They Carried." Title of this fic from the poem "The Diameter of the Bomb" by Yehuda Amichai.

Quote given to me by hazysea over at LJ. :)

* * *

**A Circle With No End And No God**

**-o-**

"**You know that big ball of radiation we call the Sun? It'll burst you into flames if you stay in one place too long. That is if the static don't get you first. So remember, even if you're dusted, you may be gone - but out here in the desert, your shadow lives on without you."  
**_**- Dr. Death Defying (My Chemical Romance, **_**Danger Days**_)._

**-o-**

This account is not real. Everything in it, every detail, is a lie. In fact, these people never existed—or, even if they once did, they don't now. It has been years, _ages_ since their names have passed through anyone's lips.

But this is just a story, so it doesn't really matter.

**-o-**

Everything begins with a man. He is young, but his eyes are not bright, nor does he smile often. This can be excused, however, when you take into consideration where it is that we are first _meeting_ this young man—at a military camp of the losing side of the war.

His name, or rather, what we will _call _him, is Corporal. This is because that is what everyone else calls him, when they call him.

Corporal spends all of the time he has that isn't spent in trenches (screaming and praying and firing and firing and firing at millions of faceless and nameless enemies) writing. He keeps a journal, filling it with his neat, cramped handwriting as he spills his life and his fears out onto its crisp, once-white pages. The desert air and sand have browned the papers, made them brittle and thin in his shaking hands, but he thinks that they are dulled more from the sorrow and desperation that blankets the encampment.

They are _losing_.

"Corporal," he hears, and he hurries to stand, dropping his journal on his bunk to snap a salute to his sergeant.

"Sir," he greets, and it rings sharply around the walls of the empty metal building that had been converted into barracks.

"At ease," the sergeant assures, and Corporal allows his shoulders to relax marginally. "You weren't at dinner, Corporal. Any specific reason?"

"No, sir," Corporal answers, a bit hesitantly. "No reason at all. I just wasn't all that hungry, sir." This, like everything in this story, is a lie. The reason Corporal did not go to dinner that night was because he did not want to hear—didn't want to _feel—_the helplessness and the hopelessness of his fellow soldiers as they spend their last night waiting, waiting, waiting.

They ship out tomorrow, to fight an unnamed battle at and unknown battlefield, and Corporal will die.

"Do you have anyone, Corporal?" his sergeant asks suddenly, and Corporal starts a little in surprise.

"…Anyone, sir? Well, my mother. And my brother and sister, too. I left them—" (crying and sobbing and pleading with him not to go, not to go, not to go) "—back home in the US. They still write to say good luck—" (short letters now, and sad. They write to say goodbye.) "and that they love me, and I say that I'll see them soon."

This is a lie because the letters he has under his pillow are not from his family. They are not from friends, either. They bear no name on the envelope, and no proof of post. They do not exist.

"That's not exactly what I meant, Corporal. Do you have anyone _special?_"

"Are you trying to ask if I have a _girl,_ sir?" Corporal almost laughs, but stops himself out of respect. "Sergeant Cobb, I don't have a girl. I don't have any—"

But this is also a lie. I tell you that Corporal did indeed have someone special, miles away—unknown and out of sight, but never out of his mind. Someone beautiful, someone who could have loved him and looked after him and waited for the day they would have left together, gone somewhere far away.

However, the hopes they never realized do not matter, because there is never anywhere other than this and by tomorrow morning, Corporal will not care.

Like the letters, Corporal will no longer exist.

He waits for a long, tense moment with his sergeant in silence, waiting for anything and something and nothing, and in the end he gets all three. A messenger runs in, panting slightly and eyes bright, grinning at the sergeant and Corporal like they've _just won the whole fucking war_.

"I don't believe it," he says, words interspersed with sharp gasps for breath. "They're coming. They're _coming_. _The British are coming._"

The statement is so absurd that when Corporal throws his head back to laugh, he doesn't stop for fear that he will cry.

**-o-**

What I forgot to mention at the start of this farce is that some miles away from Corporal's camp, there is a British military base. This base is the temporary home of the other chief character in this story, one Major.

Now, Major is also a young man, hardened with the cold of combat, but he still smiles. It may not reach his eyes, but he tries his best and that is all anyone can ask of him. Major is older than Corporal, not by much, but by enough for it to count in this unreality. He takes things hard, very hard, and all the deaths are piling up on him. It is hell here, but he tries not to mind it.

Because some miles away, in an American camp, lives _someone special_. Major knows, somehow in the back of his mind, that this is true. There is _someone special_ waiting for him there. He doesn't know who, but he knows forever that that is _true._

It is only partially a lie.

Major is told that they are moving out at 1900 hours. They will go to the American camp, and they will shake hands and trade stories with the men who live there.

And in the morning, they will die with the men who fought there.

**-o-**

In this story, the only truth is that Major and Corporal are subconsciously aware of each other. However, this can also be twisted, for who is to say that beyond their own relative nonexistence, one of these men did not only exist inside the other's head?

I won't bring you any farther down that road. You can drive yourself mad thinking those thoughts, questioning what's real and what isn't, wondering about your own importance or lack of importance in what someone else calls _truth._

It is also irrelevant, because this story never happened.

**-o-**

During the night before the Last Day, Corporal does not sleep. Instead, he writes in his journal about his mother and his brother and his sister; about his friends, his neighbors. He writes about how he wishes he could see all of them again.

Then he writes about the mission, and about the grenades in his pack and the ammo soon to be fastened across his chest. He writes about the British backup that came and broke his heart, about seeing Major and saying nothing even though he wanted to.

Wanted to say, "Fuck you, what the _hell_ do you think you're doing here?" Wanted to say, "Go back to England and _fucking stay there_." Wanted to say, "Please don't come with us and don't die, don't die, don't die."

But he doesn't know Major, so he never says anything at all.

Dawn finds him dressed, pulling on his pack, alone and waiting to die.

**-o-**

Corporal thinks that he doesn't know how he got here. He thinks that he should remember—remember the road they drove and the last words of comfort they shared, but he doesn't. All he knows is the roar of bullets and the burst of explosions and the cries of the dying, dying, dying.

He hasn't seen Major in years (seconds, minutes, hours—days and lifetimes and eternities of _where, where, where the fuck is he?_), and the sun beats down blinding and unforgiving in this desert wasteland.

There are too many enemies. They knew that going into this, but it is so obvious now. Corporal thinks that the British soldiers never should have come to be slaughtered with them, because the outcome is the same only the body count is higher. He thinks that he should be crying now, but either he already is or he will never start because he just watched Sergeant Cobb fall with five new holes in his body.

He thinks that he is the only one left.

Far off, Corporal is certain that he can hear them coming closer. He only has one gun left (it has no more ammo, though. It is useless.) and only one grenade. No one around him is moving, the bodies still and freezing as he shakes them desperately, despite the unbearable heat.

The truth of this lie is that he _is_ the only American soldier left alive on this battlefield.

Knowing this, somehow, he pushes himself to stand. They will find him. There is no hope of escape, even if he makes a run for it. Even now, he's sure he can hear the blades of the choppers rushing closer, closer, closer.

Corporal drops his gun.

He takes off his helmet, his pack, his gloves. He runs a hand through his sweaty, messy black hair and wishes for home, wishes for _anyone _to be his company, then tightens one hand around his last grenade and is glad that no one else will have to share this pain with him.

A hand closes in his.

Corporal starts, turns his head. Major stands there beside him, covered in dirt and blood and the certainty that this is the end. He smiles at Corporal, gray eyes shining, and Corporal can't help but smile back.

All around them are the shouts of the enemy soldiers, the growl of engines and chopper blades, the silent bodies of their fallen comrades.

Corporal doesn't know how he got here.

Major's hand is warm in his, and as Corporal turns his head to look again, Major kisses him. It is soft and sweet and seems to last for far too long in the time that they have left, but Corporal doesn't mind. Instead, he lays he face against Major's neck and realizes that besides Sergeant Cobb, he doesn't know the names of any of the corpses surrounding them.

He knows he should because he's been here for years and years and years, eating dinner with them and playing cards and running drills and fighting for their lives and the lives of everyone back home.

"Major," he says, softly and desperately over the cacophony building up around them, "what's your name?"

"My name?" Major repeats, almost like he doesn't quite recall what the phrase means.

"Yes. My name is Arthur. Arthur Elliot DeLacey, from South Carolina. I'm twenty-one."

Major holds him tighter as the wind begins to roar and split the air around them, as the choppers begin to land.

"My name is Daniel," he says against Arthur's ear. "Daniel James Eames. I'm from Manchester. I'm twenty-five."

"Twenty-five," Arthur whispers. "What the hell are you doing here?" His tears are hot against Daniel's neck, and his fist is white knuckled on his last grenade. "What the hell are we _doing_ here? You should run. You should _go._ Go anywhere. Just don't—"

Daniel holds him close as the choppers take aim.

It is here, at the end of some unnamed battle on some unknown battlefield, that Major Daniel James Eames and Corporal Arthur Elliot DeLacey cease to exist.

**-o-**

The events of that story are just that—a _story_. Corporal DeLacey and Major Eames never in fact lived beyond a few hours of closed eyes and rhythmic breathing. They perished with the first flutter of eyelids and the end of a countdown.

The truth of this matter is that _Sergeant_ DeLacey and _Lieutenant Colonel_ Eames never went into battle in the desert, never held hands or kissed or died together. Instead, for a few brief (hours, days, weeks) they slept, side by side, and fell in love.

This, at least, is how Arthur told me it happened.

I wasn't there when they woke, even though I was assigned to the same project. I was under in the next room, learning to lead a victory, just as they were learning to weather and withstand a defeat. I wasn't there when Arthur's eyes snapped open, his hands clenching spasmodically on the arms of his chair. I wasn't there when he wrapped himself in the embrace of a man he'd never met, tortured and terrified and only twenty-one.

I wasn't there when the two of them decided to run away, nor was I ever able to understand why, years later, Arthur never hesitated to trust a conman (and later, I would learn, _marry one)_, but would always delay to bring him in when we had a job.

I never knew, until Arthur told me.

He told me, as he braced himself on one arm, coughing up blood next to his husband (who'd been stupid, stupid, stupid and taken the bullet meant for him) after a job gone wrong. He told me that they'd met on the battlefield in an eternity that never was. He said, "Dom, this is the truth: I fell in love with a man who never existed while we burned up in the sun of the desert. All we had left were our shadows. I was lucky."

He coughed, again (around the bullet that had still found him after his husband had bled and bled and bled), and slid his hand down into Daniel's stiff fingers.

"I was lucky, Dom. I met him and fell in love with him in about fifteen minutes, before we died. He never existed, and neither did I. But I found him again."

Arthur's fingers tightened around his husband's.

Leaning forward to free his hand from its duty as his support, Arthur tossed down a chipped red die, his eyes following it as skipped and bounced to finally land on a three. He let out one breath of laughter and nearly collapsed, but seemed to regain some strength when he felt Daniel's fingers curl around his.

"Goodbye, Dom," Arthur whispers to me, his hand making it about halfway to a salute.

"Good luck, Arthur," was the last thing I ever said to him.

And on the floor of some unnamed warehouse after an unknown battle, Arthur Elliot DeLacey and Daniel James Eames died, hand in hand.

* * *

*weep* But I had so much fun writing this! I hope you all enjoyed, and I'll see you on Friday with the next update of Zombies!


	7. The Wizard of Oz

Sorry for the wait! I was busy yesterday. ;) I hope you like this chapter, since I had so much fun writing it. It's basically Arthur's backstory, or one of them. I have so many versions of how everything came to be...

Big thanks to VergOfTowels for her writing help and to my_caged_chest for the quote!

* * *

**Mental Suicide**

**-o-**

**"Hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable."  
-Wizard of Oz**

-o-

At seven o'clock in the morning, the museum doors open to let in the flood of tourists all piling up excitedly outside, practically hyperventilating at the thought of getting in to see the many beautiful works of art in the Louvre.

Arthur waits.

**-oxo-**

_The worst part of it all was that Arthur wasn't there when it happened. He wasn't even in the country. Instead, he was in Mombasa, with a man who has as many names as he has talents and outstanding warrants of arrest (his name, then, was Hanley_—Matthew Hanley—_but he will be called, from now and forever on, Eames)._

_Arthur sat at a bar, having drinks with Eames, and not thinking about anything._

_He followed Eames back to his hotel room that night, unashamedly, and not for the first time. They had been doing this for years between Arthur's jobs, since Eames didn't care much for the Cobbs, and it was always no-strings-attached. By then they had established a routine._

_They stripped, clothes landing in messy piles to be picked up in the morning, like always._

_They fell together onto the bed, hands and mouths roaming over each other's bodies, like always._

_Arthur rolled onto his back, or Eames did, and they fumbled for leverage, like always._

_But then, Arthur's phone rang._

_"Ignore it," Eames groaned, but it was the Urgent Message ringtone, and Arthur reached for it blindly, still sucking a bruise into Eames's neck. He found it, and broke away long enough to check the text that he'd just gotten._

_Then he sat up._

_"Arthur?" Eames said, breathless with lust and confusion. "Arthur, what?"_

_But all Arthur could do was stare at the screen and mouth the three words silently, over and over, until Eames touched his back gently._

_"Arthur?"_

_"Mal is dead," he finally said, phone slipping from his trembling hand into his lap. "Mal is _dead. _She's_ dead, _Eames."_

_"Oh, Arthur," the forger sighed, and then, hesitantly, "I'm sorry." And he was not unsure if he should say it, sitting there naked on a bed in some nameless hotel next to his sometimes-lover._

_No, he was unsure if he_ meant_ it._

_And that—somehow that hurt. Somehow, Arthur couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Eames _didn't care. _He didn't care that Mal was dead—he didn't care that Arthur_ did.

_Arthur stood, quickly, and stopped for only a minute to look around the room. He took in the discarded clothes, the disheveled blankets, the off-kilter lampshade from where Eames had run him into the wall next to the bedside table…and felt the low churn of disgust begin to smolder in his stomach._

Mal is dead, and I was here fucking Eames.

_Then he couldn't stand it anymore, and got dressed to leave. He grabbed his tie from the floor, looped it around his neck, and knew that that was all he would ever be able to think about when he saw Eames again._

If _he saw Eames again._

_"I'm leaving," he said, back to Eames who was still naked on the bed. "Goodbye."_

_Then he did just that._

**-oxo-**

It is in the Louvre that he first meets Mal.

He is nineteen, living in Paris for the summer with his grandparents, and wishing that he never has to leave. She is twenty-two, spending her last year at L'École D'Architecture, and waiting for her limitless future to begin.

He sees her, and she sees him, and they smile.  
He is not going to fall in love with her, he knows, as he goes over and offers her his hand. "Arthur DeLacey," he says, and her skin is warm and soft as she says, "Mallorie Miles. _Enchanté._" He knows this, because that is not how he works. He is not interested in women at all, really. However, that doesn't stop him from asking her out for coffee.

After all, she is lovely.

She accepts, and they leave together; she the irresistible magnet that draws in everyone she meets, and he the envy of every man there between the ages of fifteen and forty-five.

**-o-**

"Arthur," Mal says softly, one night, as they sit at a café and sip their drinks, "what do you think of the world?"

Startled, Arthur laughs and looks over at her. "What do I think about the _world?_ That's a rather big topic to take on in one evening." He watches her eyes sparkle with amusement, then takes another swallow of his coffee to avoid saying something else that will make her laugh at him.

"Is it?" Mal asks, leaning back against the cool metal of her chair and regarding him playfully. Then she nudges at him with the toe of her shoe. "Do you really think that?"

"Don't you?" Arthur pushes back at her with his own foot, an easy smile on his face. "I just think that there's too much of the world to fit into one night of conversation. Especially since your dad told me to have you back by midnight."

"I am twenty-two," she says, almost huffily. "It is no business of his what time I come home. It is not like I come home noisily or anything."

"Mal, you work for him," Arthur reminds gently, though honestly he isn't quite sure what they do together. Mr. Miles is a teacher, he knows—a professor at the school Mal goes to. But it is summer break, so Mal couldn't possibly be his teaching assistant at the moment.

"Yes, I know," Mal sighs, but she doesn't look all that upset. If anything, the sparkle in her eye has only intensified. She takes a moment to finish off the croissant she had ordered, and then levels her eyes at him. "But Arthur, what do you think of the _world?"_

"You're just not going to let it go, are you?"

She shakes her head and finally Arthur sets his cup down to think about it. "What do I think of the world," he says quietly to himself. He runs his finger along the brim of the porcelain, distractedly. "Well," he says eventually, "it's a bit…disappointing."

"Disappointing?" Mal questions, her eyebrows somewhere close to her hairline. Arthur hurriedly tries to explain what he means, flushing.

"It's not that I'm dissatisfied or anything, it's just…I mean, if you look at all the movies and video games and things—"

Her eyebrows inch higher, and Arthur groans, rubbing the back of his neck abashedly.

"I'm not really helping my case here, am I?" He takes a slow breath, staring over her shoulder to study the Eiffel Tower where it stands brilliantly lit up against the dark of the sky. "What I _meant_ is that sometimes I just wish…I just wish you could change things, you know? Change the rules of the world, so you could walk up a building, or build staircases that never end, or freeze the rain as it falls from the sky…"

When he looks back at Mal, his eyes are more alive then she's ever seen them.

"I mean, what if you could—I don't know—twist up the Eiffel Tower? What if you could just build a skyscraper that went up and up and never stopped?" Arthur rises to stand beside the low stone wall of the Delaville Café, staring out across the Palias du Chaillot. "What if I could take these fountains and have them shoot out water in curves that would form hearts, Mal? Or birds? Or stars?"

He watches the reflections of the lights dance on the water's surface for a few seconds more before letting his shoulders slump a little. "But the world is limited. It's all just…disappointing."

Arthur returns to the table to finish his coffee, almost afraid to look at Mal and see the same look his father had given him when they'd last spoke of things like this. His father is a realist, with no time for dreams like Arthur has. He knows, though, that Mal is nothing like his father, so he raises his eyes to her face after a minute.

Mal is smiling at him.

"Arthur," she says quietly, "I have something I want you to see." She sounds so excited that he agrees immediately, and they pay for their orders and leave the lights of Arthur's imagination behind.

She takes him back to her house.

When they arrive, she ushers him past her father and into her bedroom. Arthur honestly does not know what to expect, because this is Mal, and she is nothing if not unpredictable.

Out from under her bed, she pulls a silver case. Her eyes are bright as she turns to him again, laying it on the bed. She opens it, revealing vials of liquid and tubes connected to needles. He doesn't know what to say.

"Come here," she laughs, crooking a finger at him to draw him over to her. "Come, and I will show you something you will never forget."

**-o-**

When he leaves her to go back to America, he thanks her for the all the worlds she let him build, all the things she helped him discover. He promises that he will write, and he does.

Even when they send him to war, he never misses a letter.

When the nights are long and lonely, he thinks back to that summer in France, thinks of upside-down buildings, of kaleidoscope skies and snow that falls forever but never collects on the ground more than three inches. He never forgets to write.

Until he's assigned to the Reality Project.

**-oxo-**

_He went to Germany, to find Cobb. He wanted to know what had happened, beyond_ Mal is dead _glaring at him from the screen of his BlackBerry. Cobb was, predictably and understandably, a mess. So Arthur helped him, got him back on track, got him taped and sewed up as best he could._

_It was a long job, and a hard one. It was thankless and trying and he was sure he'd never quite be able to finish it. But he kept at it, every day._

_Because he promised Mal._

**-oxo-**

Sometimes Arthur stops to wonder why he still bothers to write to Mal. It's been two years since he joined the Project, and he hasn't sent her a single letter. They lie in the bottom of his bag, all in envelopes but unpostmarked. Even if he had wanted to send them, he wouldn't have been able to. The information they contain is classified, too dangerous to ever leave the camp.

Too heavy to keep in his heart.

He knows she'd disapprove of what they are doing here, anyway. The technology she showed him, all those years ago in France—she was using it to _create._ Mal and her father were building worlds that could never exist, testing the boundaries of physics the way he'd always wished he could…

But here, in a dark gray stone building in the southeast of Russia, Arthur is using it to rip people apart. He watches them squirm, and scream, and beg for mercy as their minds are torn open and shredded. He watches, and then he does it himself. And that is not something Arthur wants to tell Mal.

He could make something up, but even after only one summer, she could always tell when he was lying.

Arthur leaves the military—and the Reality Project—quite suddenly, with a stolen PASIV under his arm. He does it, he'd like to think, because he can't stand the way the technology is being used. He does it because he doesn't approve of destroying the minds of suspected terrorists and convicted traitors. Because he can't stand to think of the look on Mal's face, if she knew.

And it's all true.

But that's not why he does it.

He leaves because they are too afraid of him now. They've trained him too well, too thoroughly, and he's always been good at everything he set his mind to.

They had been planning to kill him.

He had overheard it, one night as he was sneaking past the officers' quarters to snitch some more paper from the desks in the main building. He'd run out again—all of his letters to Mal used up the last of his notebook.

One of the windows of the barracks had been cracked, the light through the blinds casting prison bar shadows onto the dark ground in front of him as he had tried to navigate the uneven terrain. He hadn't intended to stop, but he had heard his name.

"…too much of a danger. If we let him continue, he'll turn as twisted as the traitors he interrogates."

"If he isn't already."

"So what do you suggest, sir? We have no valid reason to discharge him. He never fights, never questions orders, nothing."

"With his knowledge of the device, we could never let him leave anyway." A sigh. "You know what we're going to have to do."

He hadn't waited long enough to hear what they decided, because he already knew. He had forgotten the paper, and instead had headed directly to the technology storage facility, where the PASIV had been kept. He had knocked out three guards and the alarm had sounded, but he'd managed to grab it and run.

And at age twenty-five, Arthur DeLacey had become a criminal.

**-oxo-**

_He hates Dominic Cobb, for what he's done to her. He hates that he sees Mal in Cobb's dreams, hates that she's twisted, that she is cold and heartless._

_He hates it, because she _wasn't.

_And he knows it's gone too far when she shoots him in the leg, without a thought. "Pain is in the mind," she says, and if she says anything after it, he can't tell for his own screaming._

_And fuck, he doesn't want one apology. He doesn't want a million._

_He wants it to _stop.

**-oxo-**

He goes to Mal.

In all honesty, he doesn't know what else to do. The truth is that he is scared. For the first time in his life, he had never really thought something through before doing it, just acted purely on instinct.

But he really doesn't want to bring this down on her.

He is standing on her doorstep, the PASIV hidden inside a sober, unassuming bag, staring at the doorbell. He sighs, and he fidgets, and finally, he is about to leave.

"Arthur? Oh, mon _Dieu! _Arthur, you're here!"

And he could never walk away from her.

"Mal," he greets, raising his eyes from his feet to smile at her. Then he catches a glimpse of a man behind her, a man with sandy hair and wide blue eyes, and Arthur thinks, Oh.

"I'm interrupting something," he says, now looking for any excuse to get out of this situation. "I can come back later. Goodbye, Mal." And when he kisses her cheeks, it is meant to be the last time he ever sees her.

But she would never accept that.

"No, you aren't interrupting anything," she insists, catching his wrist and pinning her (boyfriend?) with a warning look. "You should come in. It's freezing out here."

So he really has no choice.

"Dom, this is my friend Arthur. He has just returned from active duty in the American military," she introduces proudly. "Arthur this is my husband, Dom."

"Dominic Cobb," he says warmly, stepping forward to offer Arthur his hand. His sleeve rides up a bit, and Arthur can just make out the mark of a needle on the underside of his wrist.

"Arthur Moss," he greets, and his stiff handshake puts a world of distance between them. "It's a pleasure to meet the man who finally pinned Mal down. Make sure you're worthy of her."

Mal's eyes narrow at that, and he feels a space grow between them that was never there before. He has offended her, talking to her husband like that. But he will not take it back.

Beyond that, he isn't being honest to Cobb either, and she knows it. It is the first time he has ever lied directly to her face.

When she only tells him to behave, and to be nice to her lover, Arthur foolishly thinks he's gotten away with it. He thinks (hopes) that with her new _husband_ around, Mal will leave it alone, let it go without a fuss.

But he knows her better than that, so he is not really all that surprised when, jealous new husband and all, she corners him in the kitchen and demands he _tell her what's wrong._

And he's never been able to lie to her.

**-oxo-**

_Inception is impossible, Arthur tells him, because of course, it has to be. Genuine inspiration is impossible to fake._ _But Cobb disagrees. Of course. He accepts the job that Arthur told him to leave, and tells Arthur that they're going to do it. Arthur, for once, doesn't argue. Cobb needs to get back to his children, because Mal's children need a father._

_As their godfather and as Mal's best friend, Arthur will see that Cobb gets home._

_But God _damn_ it, there are_ plenty _of good thieves._

**-oxo-**

With the Cobbs' assistance, Arthur goes to ground in Brazil. While he's there, he discovers the world of dreamsharing as a profession - "extraction" they call it. It's criminal activity, but what is Arthur now if not a criminal, a fugitive from the government? He decides it's his best option. He becomes, through both hard work and talent, the best point man in the business.

And this is how he meets Eames.

Eames, currently introducing himself as Andrew Benting, is looking for someone to oversee a little visit he is planning to make to the dreams of some very influential CEOs. Arthur signs on, and works that job, the next job, and the next few jobs after that as Eames's point man, bickering with the man all the while.

They don't get along often, but when they do, the sex is fantastic.

Of course, they don't love each other. Eames would sell Arthur out in a heartbeat if he thought it would benefit him, and Arthur is by no means exclusively Eames's point man.

He leaves him the second the Cobbs call.

**-o-**

Arthur works for two years as an underground extractor, waiting for his name to fall off the military radar. When it does, he is free to take more socially acceptable jobs, such as militarizing the subconsciouses of very important people and purely academic work. He spends his twenty-sixth birthday at the Cobbs' house, exploring the limits of dreamspace; he is surprised when he turns twenty-seven doing the same thing. It is fascinating work, but Arthur is less interested in it than they are. That's why, when he comes back from a short trip to find Mal without the PASIV, drifting aimlessly from room to room with a pensive, almost blank look on her face, he is worried. He suggests gently that she try taking a break

Mal suggests that he go to Mombasa.

Because he doesn't want to impose on their anniversary night (and because LA is horribly boring when you've been all around the world), Arthur takes her up on it. In Mombasa, he comes across Eames, and they meet for drinks.

And in Mombasa, he gets a text from Mal that says, "I'll see you soon, Arthur," and he wonders if she and Cobb are coming down.

And in _Mombasa_, he and Eames fall into bed again.

And in LA, Mal sits on a window ledge and smiles at her husband for the last time before jumping down into her limitless future.

**-oxo-**

_It is difficult to see him again, like Arthur knew it would be. It's stupid, but all he can see when he looks at Eames is the piles of clothes, and the glowing screen._

Mal is dead.

_It isn't fair to Eames. Of course it isn't. But he and Eames were never anything more than casual fuck-buddies in those two years. (The small touches, the smiles, the mornings waking up next to each other…they didn't mean anything. They_ can't have,_ because Arthur is not ready for that. Was never, will never be. Because someone he'd_ loved—_someone who'd loved _him _would've comforted him. Eames had done no such thing.)_ _They still bicker. They still fight and tease and get on everyone's nerves until Ariadne is rolling her eyes (and she's so like Mal, so creative, so bright, so…) and Yusuf is laughing to keep himself from smacking them. But they can still work together, and they do._

_As he watches Eames from across the warehouse, Arthur comforts himself with the fact that if the job goes off smoothly, he will never have to see Eames again. Eames can go and take the bad memories he brings somewhere far away, and Arthur won't care a bit._

(_And he's screaming, _"You all right?" _and his heart is barely beating until he hears, "I'm all right. Fischer's all right, too, unless he gets carsick.")_

_The job, miraculously, is done. They're all in the airport, with their bags, waiting for taxis or connecting flights as Cobb walks past them all into the terminal where Miles is waiting._

_Then Eames's hand is warm on his lower back, and his breath is sweet by Arthur's ear. "It was nice to see you, darling. If ever you should miss me, you know where I'll be."_

_Arthur closes his eyes._

**-oxo-**

Mal's funeral is beautiful, Arthur bets. He doesn't go—he's too busy fixing Cobb—but he bets it is as lovely as she was. He hopes vainly that the kids are too young to understand what's going on, because they are too small for so much grief. He hopes that their grandparents are managing. He wishes he could see them.

But he has cried enough already.

Arthur knows he shouldn't have left Eames like he did. He knows he should have stayed, or should have said a little more before disappearing, but it wouldn't have made no difference. There is nothing that he might've said or _could've_ said. Eames wouldn't have come with him, anyway.

He tries to tell himself that _that doesn't matter. _

He still finds himself wishing, foolishly, that he wasn't alone here to watch Cobb stand stoically by the balcony guardrail and peer over it, almost like he will jump himself. Arthur wishes he had a hand to hold. He wishes someone would tell _him_ it would be alright, that it was okay to be sad.

Just so he doesn't have to be strong all the time.

It never would have been Eames. Arthur knows this, as sure as he knows that Cobb will not jump because Arthur will not let him. He _knows_ that Eames would never have gone _anywhere_ with him.

That doesn't stop him from wishing.

**-oxo-**

_Someday (maybe soon maybe never maybe now), Arthur will go to Mombasa. He will meet up with Eames again, and have drinks, but they will not go back to a hotel. They will not strip from their clothes as if they were on fire, and they will not have sex._

_Not immediately, anyway._

_Instead, Eames will take Arthur back to his apartment, and he will stroke Arthur's face gently and say, "Arthur, I'm sorry."_

_He will not hesitate, because he is sure this time. He may not be sorry that Mal is dead, but he will be sorry that Arthur lost someone he loved. He will hold Arthur close, kiss him gently._

_And Arthur will try to forgive himself for not being there to stop Mal, when she told him to leave in the first place. Maybe he will succeed. Maybe he won't._

_But he will no longer be trying alone._

* * *

Thanks for reading! I hope the formatting wasn't too confusing. :) See y'all on Friday!


	8. Unknown

You know, it's been so long since I put something up here that I almost forgot how to. That's...sad. Anyway, I'm not back into the fandom (yet, I may find myself here again sooner or later), just putting up some of my old completed-but-not-posted fills for my Quest for Quotes. I do this, of course, because I'm addicted to feedback and the fic I'm currently working on is long, unfinished, unedited, and not going to be up until it's _done_. So...indulge me?

From the quote given to me by birddi over at LJ. Much thanks to the wonderful VergofTowels for forever betaing my stuff. Title from the poem _I Am Not Yours_ by Sara Teasdale.

* * *

**I Am Not Yours, Not Lost In You  
(Not Lost, Although I Long To Be)**

**-o-**

**"I don't pretend to know what love is for everyone, but I can tell you what it is for me; love is knowing all about someone, and still wanting to be with them more than any other person, love is trusting them enough to tell them everything about yourself, including the things you might be ashamed of, love is feeling comfortable and safe with someone, but still getting weak knees when they walk into a room and smile at you**." **-Unknown **

**-o-**

Arthur doesn't love Eames.

He knows this, as they lay in bed together after another job pulled off miraculously, blazing guns stored under pillows and in drawers by the bed for easy access. His left leg is draped over Eames's right, his face buried in Eames's neck, his arm resting casually across Eames's waist.

Eames is complicated.

Eames is a puzzle.

Eames is sometimes so impossible to understand that Arthur can't even begin to think about spending more than three minutes in a room with him, yet he never wants to leave.

But that's okay, because Arthur is complicated and sometimes impossible, too.

The truth is, Arthur knows very little about Eames. He knows that Eames is British—actually, not just pretending to be—but Arthur doesn't know which province he's from. He knows that all of Eames's tattoos have stories behind them, but Eames won't tell him what the stories are.

Eames can speak four languages besides English, but Arthur doesn't know which ones.

Eames has a favorite color, and a favorite song, and a favorite book. He has a favorite places, favorite things, and a favorite time of day, too. But Arthur doesn't know any of these things.

That's okay, though.

It is, because all Eames knows about Arthur is that he's American. That he's brilliant, deadly, and has no imagination. He doesn't know that Arthur is from the South, or that he speaks French, German, and Italian fluently. He doesn't know that Arthur reads _The Alchemist_ whenever he has a free moment, that he always likes to watch the sun set, or that he bakes whenever the hell he feels like it.

This is because Eames doesn't love Arthur, either.

They pull away from each other, finally, and Eames stretches. The lines of his back are long, and Arthur reaches out a hand to trace one of the ink splendors flowing across the broad shoulders. Eames shivers.

"When is this from?" Arthur asks, because he never gives up.

Eames turns to look at him, calculating, and finds him sleepy and open and interested. He turns, and takes Arthur's hand in his own, debating.

"I got it when I was sixteen," he says.

And Arthur smiles, a little, and says, "My favorite color is blue."

**-o-**

The truth of the matter is this: Arthur doesn't love Eames, and Eames doesn't love him.

Yet.

* * *

So, a short little thing, but I had fun writing it. Maybe in a few days I'll put up another one. :) Hope you liked it, and I might see you around soon!


End file.
